My Girl
by sparki111
Summary: Francis doesn't do friends. Not really, anyhow. It's just too risky. And besides, she too's busy pretending to be a boy to waste time on friendships that - ultimately - are doomed to fail. She expects that Shermer High school won't be all that different. She just doesn't fit in, but honestly? She isn't the only one.


**Hello readers! For my followers, I know that I haven't written anything/done anything remotely useful for an eternity. But – well, life, y'know?  
>Anyway, I finally thought that it was time to pay homage to John Hughes' <strong>**_The Breakfast _****Club – one of my All Time Favourites. So, this little adventure is based after the film, in the Club's senior year (so, 1985). I really hope that you enjoy it; it's a little different, but I think that you guys are cool enough to roll ****J**

**DISCLAIMER: I own my OC's. But John Hughes owns The Breakfast Club. Yes, I know. I cry about it every day.**

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><p>I stare at the computer screen. It's funny how, if you stare at a sentence for too long, it stops making sense. The words just become a jumble of letters that don't mean anything at all. I sigh, and rest my forehead against the bench top. The plastic is cool, and I smile into the hard surface. With my head down low, I can hear the whirring of my laptop.<p>

Buzz. Buzz. Buuuuzzzz.

Eloquent, I know.

I sigh again, and drag myself up. I rest my chin in my hand, and frown at the screen. The cursor flashes at the end of my name: Francis Bender. I shake my head, and hit the backspace key. I like my name – I do – but it isn't much by way of creative writing.

The front door opens. Relieved, I turn away from the laptop. "What's up?" I call.

"My life sucks!" comes the reply. I smirk, and roll my eyes.

"That's right, honey, express yourself." I click the mouse pad absently, and my daughter slumps into the kitchen. She drops her bag on the floor; I watch in amusement as it slowly sags sideways, and ends up in a heap against the doorway. I lower the screen, and smile at Julianne. "What happened?"

She sighs. "Mr. Vernon happened."

As she mumbles his name, my smile fades. "What d'you mean, 'Vernon happened'?" I inquire. With a huff, Jules sits down across from me. She reaches out, and takes the mug coaster I have been resting my glass on for the last hour. As I watch her, she flips it, around and around in her fingers. Her dark eyes are fixed on its weird, triangular patterns. Eventually, I snatch it from her fingers. She looks up at me, and scowls, but I only return her glare, and chuck the piece of cork over my shoulder.

"Stop the avoidance, eh?"

Jules rolls her eyes, and I can't help but wonder if she realises just how much she looks like me when she does. She folds her hands in front of her. "I got detention," she mutters. "Again." I sigh.

"What'd you do?" I ask, and Jules looks up.

"Nothing. That's my point."

I nod. "Okay, let me rephrase." I lean forward. "What did he _say _that you did?" Jules smirks mirthlessly.

"Truth?"

I nod. "Truth."

Jules throws her shoulders back, and clears her throat. "Today, Mother, I received a Saturday detention for – and here I quote -," she lifted her fingers, and curled them into quotations, "- for walking like a thug." She dropped her hands. "Unquote."

For a moment, I just stared at her. And then, slowly, I cocked my head to the side. "What does that even mean?" I ask. Jules threw her hands in the air.

"Exactly!" she cries. "I was going to shop, carrying my bag, holding my folder, and suddenly," she pauses, and lowers her voice, "I hear, 'Bender! Hold it!'" I give a sigh of frustration; I can all but see that sad bastard, chasing my daughter down the corridor. "So I turn, and of course, Vernon's 'you're in trouble, miss'." She moans, and falls forward against the bench top. I gaze down and her, and gently, stroke the top of her head. Her dark hair is so smooth; I don't know how, considering the fact that she hardly washes it – _ever_. But then again, neither did her father and he had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen.

I swallow, and lower my hand. Jules lifts her head.

"Why does he hate me?" she asks. I sigh, and get to my feet. The stool scrapes across the floor as I do.

"Because you remind him of your dad," I reply. Jules nods; I've told her this before. "He sees you, and all he can think about is how much you look like some kid he used to know." I walk across the kitchen, and pull two bowls from the cupboard. Jules catches on immediately; she jumps towards the refrigerator, and extracts a tub of ice-cream. "And if I'm right, Vernon _doesn't _want to be reminded of John Bender." At this, my daughter smirks. She lifts herself up onto the bench top, and pops the ice-cream lid.

"Mum," she begins, "I know that I ask you about Dad a lot." It isn't a question, but I nod anyway.

"Yeah, you do." Jules smiles, and takes a spoon to the ice-cream.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asks. She lifts the spoon to her lips, and swallows it in a gulp. I smile at her.

"No. I don't mind." Jules nods, sucking down the ice-cream.

"Well, if everyone hated him-,"

"Uh, not _everyone_," I correct her. "Just Vernon." She nods again, and gestures towards me, as if to say, "very well".

"-if he was so much trouble, then how did you end up with him?" She sucks on another lump of frozen cream, and stares at me expectantly. I smirk, and cross my arms upon the bench top. The plastic is still cool.

"Well," I mutter. "_There's_ a story."

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><p><strong>So, it begins. Tell me; think it's a keeper? Reviews would be <strong>**_wonderful_****! Thanks!**

- **Sparki**


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